Posing As Parkinson
by potionseagle
Summary: To save herself, Hermione uses a dark curse to assume the dead Pansy Parkinson's appearance, taking part of the departed Slytherin's soul with her. Now, she must navigate the aftermath of the war that Voldemort has won, including an arranged marriage with her former nemesis, Draco Malfoy. Dramione. Dark AU.
1. The Ritual

Hermione trembled above the lifeless, still-warm body of Pansy Parkinson.

The witch had spent too many of her days in the remote parts of the English countryside reading about dark curses to prepare herself against Voldemort and his Death Eaters, and to learn more about the man himself. She never thought she would be considering using one of them. Especially this one.

She tentatively reached forward, combing the dark hair in front of the young girl's face. Although they were never friends in school and were on opposite sides of the war, Hermione felt nearly broken when she came across her dead form. Almost everyone she knew had died, and the addition of anyone else to that list was cause for heartache, not celebration. Especially when the death counts didn't matter anymore since everyone had stopped counting.

The war was over. It had ended sometime that night—there had been no sun since the last skirmish, but Hermione couldn't say with certainty how many hours had passed. What she did know was that she was running out of time. Soon they would capture her, and torture her endlessly or kill her. Every key member of the Order, every Weasley, and nearly ever Gryffindor was dead. She knew that for a certainty. As for the rest, it was unclear. But there wasn't enough to fight back. Not tonight, anyway.

She remembered the particular curse that was on her mind not because she had planned to use it, or believed it would ever be used against her, but because she found it so disturbing. It could swap the appearances of two people— _permanently_ —but some of the each other's soul would intermingle with the other. It didn't say how much; she doubted it had exactly been measured. But it sounded like less than half, but enough to notice.

Could she live with having a small part of Pansy Parkinson within her? And with losing part of herself? But another voice in her mind asked: could she live if she _didn't_ do this? There was nowhere to hide. The anti-apparition wards were up; her beaded bag was long gone; and the forest was largely burned from several uncontrolled Fiendfyre curses. She was a sitting duck.

Hermione swallowed, struggling to remember how to perform the curse. She would not give up; she would not be killed or captured. This was not the end for Hermione Granger, even if it was some sort of end for Hermione Granger as she existed right now.

Hermione wasn't even sure if it would work. The book had two documented cases of performing the ritual with the dead—but each body had been dead under an hour. She had no idea how long Pansy had been laying there.

Again, Hermione reminded herself that this was her last option. Tears forming at her eyes, she used a slicing hex on her forearm, and then performed the same action on Pansy. _You're desecrating a dead body_ , a panicked voice in the back of her head nagged at her.

She began to chant quietly in Latin, grateful for learning the dead language long before she had attended Hogwarts. It took all of her strength to keep her voice steady as she felt what could only be described as a violent pull on her person despite the fact that she was perfectly still.

Toward the end of the curse, she felt a violation—something moved inside her that should not have been there as surely as if it were solid. She felt bile rise up in her throat, but she ignored it, continuing to chant.

As she finished, she broke down, sobbing over a dead body that was now a reflection of herself—or rather, her former self.

Her practical side forced her to continue, however, as she healed the wounds from the slicing hexes. She couldn't be too careful; someone might suspect her crime.

Hermione continued to cry, leaning against a tree branch to distance herself from her vile act, but unable to leave the scene completely. Something tethered her there, and it was a strange comfort to be near herself when she kept looking down and feeling shocked by her newly pale skin, the straight dark hair occasionally falling into her vision, and her slender frame.

She heard footsteps but didn't dare look up.

"It's Potter's Mudblood," she heard someone exclaim, the voice wild with glee and reverence. It could have only belonged to Bellatrix Lestrange.

Bellatrix kneeled over her body, curls intertangling with curls, while Hermione sat silently, unable to speak. Bellatrix threw her head back and cackled. As she did so, she finally noticed Hermione sitting there.

"You're the Parkinson girl, aren't you?"

Hermione nodded numbly.

"Did you kill the Mudblood?"

Hermione hadn't thought about that; and what of the person who had killed Pansy? She brushed the thought aside; she could worry about that later. Besides, that person was likely dead themselves.

Hermione nodded slowly, deciding taking credit would be the best option.

Bellatrix closed in on her and stroked her face. Hermione struggled not to scream; her touch and proximity reminded her too much of the woman in front of her torturing her at the Manor, but there was another sense of warm familiarity that Hermione realized must have been coming from Pansy.

"Such a good girl," Bellatrix cooed. "Our Lord will be pleased with you. Come, let's get you cleaned up. You will celebrate with us at dawn."

Hermione allowed herself to be dragged, trying to keep her crying quiet as she moved through the destroyed forest.


	2. Sensation

A/N: Thanks all for your patience! I've been on a bit of an unplanned hiatus on all my stories these last couple months but I am getting into writing again and am not planning on disappearing. Hope you enjoy this second installment.

* * *

Walking in her new body was like an extreme version of waking up a limb that was asleep. Each step was sluggish, as though her new feet were unaccustomed to taking orders from her and had to process what should be automatic.

Each step felt _wrong_. Her balance was affected because her admittedly bad habit of putting too much weight on her big toe was more than an annoying bad habit; Pansy's toes just wouldn't support it, causing her to topple forward.

Her new straight hair that she always wanted didn't feel like her curly hair with Sleekeazy's in it; it was slippery and wouldn't stay behind her ear, continually falling into her face and flooding her vision with an aggressive reminder that this was not hers; _that she had stolen this_. Hermione didn't need the reminder.

The walk behind her previous tormentor felt like hours. Her grasp of time was flimsy enough that she could not estimate how long it took in reality, or how far she had been from Voldemort's encampment.

At one point, Bellatrix turned around and grabbed Hermione by the shoulders. The madwoman met her face to face, just inches away so that Hermione's vision was flooded by those wide, green eyes.

"I can hear you bumbling about behind me."

Hermione couldn't help but swallow thickly. _Please don't say I altered my soul only to be killed by Bellatrix Lestrange_.

"You're dizzy, aren't you?"

Hermione nodded numbly.

"Your magic feels different. You're practically _humming_ ," Bellatrix seemed excited by this, and Hermione didn't know what it meant that she was humming. And hadn't Bellatrix just struggled to recognize her? How would she know if her magic were different?

"Dark witches recognize each other, don't they, girl?"

Hermione nodded numbly but Bellatrix was still staring intently so Hermione managed to choke out, "I am honored to be noticed by you." She felt like she should add "your Lady" or something but didn't want to say the wrong thing, so she just trailed off instead. Her voice sounded scratchy, and more high-pitched than she was used to. Hermione had thought Pansy's whiny high-pitched voice was an affectation, but if anything, it seemed she had learned to counteract it, because it sounded the same to Hermione's ears, and she knew that voices always sounded deeper to the person speaking. Hermione tried to remember why, but she could only remember something about vibrations. _I must be really exhausted_ , she thought dismally. And then, in a panic, she thought, _I hope I'm not dumber now!_

Hermione didn't have too much time to contemplate any effects on her intelligence because Bellatrix began talking as they resumed walking. "You were just a speck, an insignificant thing, but I can _feel_ your dark magic pulsating around you. It's _thrilling_." Bellatrix was grinning now. Hermione managed a smug smile in response, but inside was panicking. Bellatrix must just be making this up because she thought Hermione had killed, well, her, but she wasn't _really_ a darker witch than Pansy.

Was she?

"How did it feel to kill the Mudblood, to have her life in your hand and crushing it?"

Hermione tried not to tremble. She was terrified of lying to Bellatrix, so she mentally scanned her memories to think of something she had done not out of survival, but of spite, and her thoughts landed on keeping Rita Skeeter in the jar. How did it feel? She had tried not to think about it too much, but now she forced herself to feel those feelings again, and somehow the memory seemed altered, infused with more glee than she had felt at the time.

No matter what image she conjured, though, she didn't know what it felt to take a life, and didn't want to risk pretending to someone as familiar with dark magic as Bellatrix. Not only had the witch performed countless dark acts, but she _reveled_ in them, as Hermione knew from firsthand experience.

"Killing her was _cathartic_ , almost," Hermione said, trying to keep it brief but injected as much pride as she could in her description, "the knowledge that I'll never have to see that filthy mudblood again." Bellatrix seemed dissatisfied with her response, so Hermione pressed on. "But the best part was the _torture_." Bellatrix's eyes widened and lit up again. Hermione suppressed the strong feeling that she was going to be sick.

"Not being able to finish off that mudblood was one of the worst parts of this war. She was such a fun plaything," Bellatrix giggled, and the noise sent chills down Hermione's spine.

"I apologize if I should have left her to you," Hermione quickly replied, fear rising.

Bellatrix wrapped an arm around her, which only made Hermione's heart beat faster. Annoyingly, this new heart seemed more reactive to her surroundings than her old one. Pansy had given her the gift of heightened anxiety. Hermione wished she could say that it was Pansy's last fuck-you to her old enemy, but she didn't doubt that more were coming.

"Scum are scum," Bellatrix replied venomously, "even Potter's mudblood was no one worth special treatment. You were right to finish her off. But because you did get the fun of it, you can tell me about what it felt like to torture her."

Her thoughts flitted back to Rita again. "Knowing that I had the woman who had tormented me for so long—who dared to think she was _better_ than me—completely at my mercy. It was thrilling. The power, the knowledge that one flick of my hand and she would be _dust_. I loved watching her suffer."

Hermione's words, tumbling out so easily, scared herself, but they satisfied Bellatrix, who gripped her tighter as her eyes popped out in excitement.

"The Dark Lord will be _so pleased_."


	3. Instinct

A/N: To all my readers—apologies for the unplanned six-month hiatus. To make a long story short, I've been suffering from health problems that have made it difficult to write, but I'm slowly recovering. Thank you to everyone who continues to read. I'm behind responding to reviews as well, but I'll be catching up soon. :)

* * *

Bellatrix's arm was still wrapped around Hermione several minutes later, her long fingernails digging into Hermione's now bony left shoulder. Hermione could feel the pulsing, erratic dark magic that came off the older woman in waves. The feeling was making Hermione lightheaded—or perhaps it was the several hours that separated her from her last meal. Either way, she kept her eyes trained on the ground as Bellatrix led her through, focusing intently on the simple act of walking.

Because she lacked the capacity to pay attention to her surroundings while staying upright, she fell clean over when Bellatrix suddenly let go, simpering "my Lord, my triumphant Lord."

Hermione attempted to make her fall look intentional by placing her hands more neatly in front of her and bowing her head, debating internally whether she should acknowledge Voldemort and deciding on no. It was much riskier to do so and besides, she was unsure if she could handle it.

Hermione bit her lip nervously as she held her pose, continuing to hear Bellatrix praising Voldemort and Voldemort coolly responding with a few iterations of "thank you, Bellatrix, that will be all." But even in his irritation there was a joy behind his voice that it had lacked during his demands several hours earlier, asking Harry to present himself.

 _I can't think about that right now_ , she chanted like a mantra, closing her eyes hard as though it could block out thoughts of her now deceased best friend. Instead, she saw his worn face and bright green eyes stare back at her as though they were imprinted on the back of her eyelids.

Suddenly, she felt someone jerk back the curtain of hair falling to her left.

"Pansy…" A voice choked out. Hermione struggled to recognize it. Deciding it was not worth the effort, she turned her head to the left while keeping it bowed and saw the unusually wide-eyed face of Blaise Zabini.

"Blaise," she shot back tentatively.

He didn't move, didn't speak, just continued to stare while slowly shaking his head.

And although her head swam slightly, she caught on. Without thinking or weighing her options, a method of reaction that she was wholly unaccustomed to, Hermione lunged forward and knocked Blaise over, pinning him and taking his wand.

But Blaise's next words simultaneously confirmed her split-second decision and answered her previous question of who had killed Pansy Parkinson. "Pansy, I wasn't myself; I don't know what I was doing."

"So it wasn't you who attempted to use two words to end a Parkinson?" Hermione demanded, her heart beating out of her chest as she hoped that she was reading this situation right.

Hermione roughly pulled his hair, surprised at her own boldness—with a sinking heart, she wondered if it was her own, but she pushed the thought aside. She needed to focus; this was a critical moment that might decide her fate.

"I don't understand what happened," Blaise mumbled, more to himself than to her, his eyes darting around frantically as though looking for a savior, but Bellatrix and Voldemort's voices were far away, mixed with several others that Hermione could not recognize.

"Ms. Parkinson, dear," a silken voice cut through the tension. Hermione swallowed hard, fear building inside her as she recognized the voice of Lucius Malfoy. _There's no need to be afraid anymore_ , Hermione tried to reason with herself, but had to hold back a wince as he continued speaking. "Why are you not celebrating our triumphs?"

She looked up at the elder Malfoy, willing her voice not to shake as it came out high but clear, "Blaise attempted to kill me earlier. Apparently, he never learned the lesson that you have to _mean it_."

Hermione glanced back at the boy underneath her as she emphasized her last two words to catch his reaction. His face confirmed everything; he had tried to kill her— _actually, he succeeded,_ Hermione corrected herself—but why?

"That is a serious accusation, Ms. Parkinson. How do you respond, Mr. Zabini?"

Blaise was shaking his head furiously, although it was unclear if that was in response to Lucius's question or in an attempt to wrench himself free of Hermione's crushing grasp on his hair.

Hermione shoved her knee into his throat as she felt his Adam's apple bobbing underneath her knobby knee. "Please, Pansy, I can't—"

But Blaise's begging abruptly stopped as Hermione was levitated up and back, her head slamming against what was left of a tree before her eyes began to fill with black dots first, more colorful dots next, making out the laughing form of Bellatrix Lestrange before she could no longer prevent herself from succumbing to the darkness, catching Harry's face again as she drifted out of consciousness.


	4. Bedfellows

A/N: Thank you all for the well wishes and continued support. Hearing from my readers truly makes all the difference and inspires me to keep writing.

* * *

Every inch of Hermione's body was exhausted as she began to wake. For a few blissful moments, she forgot about her predicament, the deaths of her dear friends, and the loss of the war, but the dull ache in the back of her head where it had made contact with a tree stump served as a sharp reminder of the last several hours.

Hermione opened her eyes sleepily and a dark curtain of fog greeted her. She was disoriented for a moment before realizing that it was her new eyelashes that were creating the effect. Quickly, Hermione sprung her eyes wide open to counter it. Although she knew that eventually she would have to fully accept her new body, that day was not today. It was simply too much to ask of herself on top of every other event of the last several hours.

Still, Hermione could not help but feel grateful that, for the first time since her brief time at Shell Cottage, she was in a bed. But unlike the cozy feel of the room she stayed in there, with its knitted blankets in rich golds and burgundies she suspected were created by Molly, the room she stayed in reminded her of another wizarding house she had visited during the war.

The room was a deep green with blue undertones, set off by cream crown molding. The ceiling featured an elaborate painting of a man proudly standing outside a large manor, the sky behind him covered in moving swirls of either fog or clouds—it was difficult to tell. As Hermione continued to study the painting, trying to wrack her brain to decide what other painting it reminded her of, the subject began narrowing his eyes and turning away from her with his nose in the air.

Although the painting on the ceiling was not purely representational, the lines of the painted manor seared into Hermione's brain as she was painfully reminded of the _other_ wizarding house she had the misfortune of seeing for the first time this last year. She jerked her head away from the painting of Malfoy Manor as memories of Bellatrix's torture flashed in front of her, just as clearly as though the encounter had only been yesterday.

Hermione sat up, propping her pillow against the elaborate, dark cherry headboard and leaned against it, concentrating on her breathing. She closed her eyes briefly, but that only intensified the images, so she instead tried to focus her thoughts on her breathing while keeping her eyes open, trained on the blank stretch of hunter green wall directly across the room from her.

 _Deep breath in…_

 _"Where is the sword?"_

 _Blinding white pain._

 _And out…_

 _The sound of her own screaming, seemingly coming from someone else._

 _In…_

A loud creak broke Hermione's runaway train of thought. The door to her left continued to open and—because this day has to get worse, Hermione decided—it was Draco Malfoy standing in the doorway, leaning slightly against the frame in lieu of walking in.

For the first time, Hermione looked down at her new body and became aware that she was dressed in what was essentially an old-fashioned slip complete with off-white lace trim. Her cheeks inflamed involuntarily as she pulled up the heavy comforter to cover herself up to her chin. _Although it's not really_ me _that's exposed_ , Hermione told herself.

Although this had the effect of snapping Hermione out of her embarrassment as her mind immediately strayed to her discomfort regarding her new body rather than being too exposed in front of Draco Malfoy, it unfortunately made her feel worse and she had to focus to keep her face straight.

Meanwhile, Draco cocked an eyebrow at Hermione's cover-up and entered the room, closing the door firmly shut behind him before perching on the side of the absurdly large bed she had woken up in. He was only inches away from her and Hermione felt a strange pull toward him that it took her a moment to identify because it was so foreign to the way she felt the last time he was this close—when she had punched him square in the face.

But in the same way, it was a familiar feeling, just not toward this person in front of her that she had always despised. She had felt it fourth year, looking up at Krum in the middle of a dance, and just hours ago, basilisk fangs beneath her feat. It was lust, and she wanted to try to shake it out of her because it wasn't _hers_ —she did _not_ feel this way toward Draco. And even more than before, she wished she could crawl out of her body and out the door, out of this Manor.

 _Perhaps even worse than losing part of one's soul is living with another's partial or submerged soul. The difficulty of parsing the influence of the original soul of the body has been rumored to have driven wizards who have attempted the curse mad, though documentation or corroboration is nonexistent, either because of the taboo nature of the spell, the scarcity of those who have attempted it, or a combination of both._

The passage of the book came into Hermione's mind like a brand, tearing through her brain. Although she thanked her nearly photographic memory for remembering the steps to take to perform the curse, Hermione wanted to forget the rest of the few pages devoted to the curse and its detailing of its consequences—the only positive of which was Hermione's escape from certain death.

Hermione shook her head and looked up at the intruder, who was staring at her suspiciously. _Wonderful._

Hermione briefly debated whether to speak first, but Draco saved her the trouble by beginning to speak in a bored drawl. "What is going on with you, Pansy? _First_ ,"—Draco emphasized the word "first" with extra whine injected into his already nasal voice—"I hear something or other about you killing Granger. You once dragged me out of bed to kill a spider in the common room."

His icy eyes bore into hers in a challenge as he leaned back so that his spine was flush against one of the poles of the four poster she woke up in, a signal she took to mean that he expected a response before he continued with his apparent list of uncharacteristic actions she had taken.

Hermione's mind raced as she had no impulse reaction to Draco's words; just when she needed a piece of Pansy to point her in the correct direction, none was to be found. And so she tried to quickly think of what little she knew of the Slytherin girl; she was certainly nasty to Gryffindors, but she had always seemed to kiss up to Draco. Hermione didn't see how she could respond by being obsequious, but it sounded from the spider story that being needy would work well enough, mixed with some of Pansy's particular brand of unpleasantness. "And where were you this time, Draco, when I needed you?" As she narrowed her eyes for effect, she felt her new lower lip curve into a pout automatically, as if the muscles of this face were simply used to moving in certain configurations.

"Cut it out, Pansy," Draco groaned as he rolled his eyes at the ornate ceiling. Although he sounded irritated, the suspicion seemed to have evaporated as Hermione allowed herself a small sigh of relief. "I'm serious, you know. Tell me everything." His voice lowered as he spoke the last sentence in a hypnotic tone that had her pulse quickening.

Hermione resisted the something inside her that wanted to obey Draco's command as she whined instead: "I'm _exhausted_ , Draco. Absolutely spent. And since you've had your ear to the ground, I'm guessing you heard that Blaise tried to fucking kill me?" Her voice was rising now. "But you come in here and ask me about Granger instead of asking if I'm alright?"

Draco couldn't have looked less apologetic and didn't even bother making eye contact as he mumbled a half-hearted apology, deciding instead to concentrate on digging a bit of dirt out from under his otherwise manicured nails.

Hermione didn't respond, huffing instead and reaching out her bent left leg to kick him from under the covers.

"Salazar, Pansy," Draco cursed. "Don't act like a child; you know how it irritates me."

Hermione was fuming at Draco Malfoy bossing her around as if she _were_ a child, but she forced herself to let it go as she continued in the high-pitched voice she was slowly becoming accustomed to. "I'm sorry, Draco, okay? I'm tired; I need to rest."

"Fine, fine. I'm tired of arguing with you and I'm exhausted as well. You missed quite the party, Pansy." His lips slowly curved up in a lazy smile.

Hermione tried to will her face to look disappointed but had no idea if it had taken, not knowing her new face well enough to picture the expression. "Don't rub it in," she responded playfully, not wanting to dampen Draco's increasing spirits.

Draco was staring at her with an eyebrow raised but she had no idea what to do as she had already expressed her desire for sleep. So, she simply repeated her wish to rest in a hesitant voice.

"I heard you," Draco responded slowly, as though she were thick for not realizing something. "So scoot _over_ ; I've already told you I need some sleep too, and how in Merlin's name am I going to do that when you're taking up my entire bed?"

Hermione's mouth involuntarily formed the letter "o" as she felt the blood drain from her already pale face. She was in Draco Malfoy's bed. Suddenly, she felt the strongest urge to lift up the covers as she felt phantom bugs crawling on her legs from the sheer disgust she felt at this news. "I just thought—" her words tumbled over one another as her mind raced for explanations—"won't your parents—"

"The Dark Lord is triumphant," Draco interrupted her, "no one will think twice about two betrothed adults sharing a bed and that is if anyone will be sober enough to check on us." His voice was bored and patronizing once again.

Hermione turned her gaze away from his in a show of scooting over on the bed and rolling onto her side, when in reality she simply couldn't look at him as she processed the new information.

She heard rustling behind her and saw from the corner of her eye Draco cross the room and start to undress. Hermione turned away but there was no escaping him as he slid under the covers and she felt his every bone and muscle against her own bony back before his hand slid over her hip bone to drape casually over her side.

Hermione closed her eyes tight, fighting through myriad emotions from two sources, both vying for dominance.


End file.
